Revenge of the Taxidermist
by Len
Summary: What happens when a crime ring infiltrates the Chicago headquarters for the Society of Creative Anachronism? Serious weirdness. RayK/Female, Fraser/Meg
1. A Monk, A Cop, And A Mountie

Revenge of the Taxidermist 

**By **Len

**Rating**: PG-13, but there are some Bad Words

**Spoilers**: Occurs, somehow, after 'Call of the Wild', so basically the entire show.

**Category**: humor/action/romance

**Teaser**: What if Fraser wasn't the only Mountie out to save Chicago from the slime of the Universe?

**Pairing**: RayK/New Female Character, Fraser/Meg, References to RayV/Stella.

**Disclaimer**: I can't even begin to tell you how not mine these characters and the whole Due South premise is. Oh, except the new characters. Those, for better or worse, are mine.

**Feedback**: Is sought.

* * *

The cavernous room was silent except for the desperate, ragged breathing of one of it's occupants. The only light came from a blue neon sign across the street, and filtered through a tiny, dirty window. It wasn't much, but it was enough to cast shadows to hide in.

A sudden curse broke the stillness.

"Ow! What the hell? I just walked into a _wall_!"

"The secret is not to look directly in the direction you wish to go," another voice replied. "The human eye sees much better in the dark when peripheral vision is—"

"Yeah, that's great. Could you just tell me where the suspect is so I can arrest him and go beg forgiveness from my date?"

"It's one a.m., Sam. I don't think your date will still be at the restaurant. But as for the whereabouts of our suspect, just follow your ears. He is obviously suffering from smoking-induced asthma, indicating that—"

Sam, however, was not listening. She was instead venting her spleen at the entire situation by carrying on a running commentary of the man who was to have been her date for the evening, while simultaneously running into one object after another.

"...muscles, but not too many, y'know? Ow! Dammit! And he's got a smile like you wouldn't believe, and he's even got money. Money! D'you know how much money a Chicago cop makes, Em?"

While Em admitted that she didn't know what the exact pay scale was for Chicago law enforcement officers, their suspect began to get his breathing under control. When he attempted to creep around a corner, the murky blue light fell on the dome of his bald head.

"Hey, why don't you just give up?" Sam yelled, spotting him. "You're out-numbered!"

"And," Em added. "You are trapped. This room has only one exit, and Detective Paterson is guarding that. You can't escape. You you'll just come calmly, there is no reason for anyone to get hurt.

The bald head disappeared from view. "Fuck you, bitch! I ain't done nothin'!"

"Yeah sure, buddy," Sam said. "You 'ain't done nothin', which is why you've got blood all over your toga there, and there's a knife stuck out of that weaver's back in the other room. A knife which I bet dollars to doughnuts has your prints all over it."

"Cowl, Sam."

"Huh?"

"What the man is wearing – it's not a toga. It's actually a cowl."

"Toga, cowl, towel, fowl – whatever! The point is, and I'll put this in short words so you'll understand, buddy – you come out now, I don't shoot you in the head."

The only reply was a shouted expletive followed by another round of violent coughting.

"Gah!" Sam said in exasperation, pausing to lean against another wall she'd run into. Why couldn't these guys ever come quietly? While she was out here chasing this scum-bucket, Rick and his Million Dollar Smile was probably having drinks with some woman who'd picked up when Sam didn't show.

Somewhere to her right, Em cleared her throat. "You know, my Grandfather had a saying—"

"Oh, Lord," Sam said piously.

"—'A wise man knows defeat'."

Sam gaped at her in the dark. "That's it? Nothing involving beaver fur or imported French cheese?"

"No, Sam. However," the other woman continued, "He told me something else when I was young. At the time, we were camping deep in the woods of British Colombia. A terrible storm had struck and the firewood was soaking wet – it was useless." She crept closer. "The snow was falling in drifts. There was no visibility through it, and I was convinced that my Grandfather and I were going to freeze to death."

"Too bad you didn't!" piped up the suspect.

"Shaddup!" Sam yelled back. She was beginning to see where Em was going with this.

"Be that as it may, Sir...I was just beginning to despair when my Grandfather took me by the shoulders. 'Lass,' he said, 'a man is never truly lost when he has a flashlight."

With that, she shone said item straight into the suspect's face, blinding him. Sam jumped up to cuff him.

Only to immediately fall and hug the floor when the man's weasley face twitched, and he let off a volley of gunfire.

"Oh, Holy hell! The bastard's got a gun!"

"I don't imagine he'll be allowed to stay in the Benedictine Order after this," Em commented, somewhat breathlessly.

"Why are you talking about eggs?" Sam hissed. "There's a monk with a gun and he's shooting at us!"

"Not eggs, Sam – actually, the Benedictine Order was—"

"Whatever!" Sam scanned the room and came to a decision. "Right. I go right, and you go left. Right? On three."

"A fine idea. One?"

"Two—"

And Em took off through the middle of the room, dodging tables and what appeared, in the dark anyway, to be an Iron Maiden.

"Meg! Dammit!" Sam swore and ran after her. "Freakin' suicidal Mountie! What do they feed you for breakfast, anyway?" She could just barely see her partner's silhouette as she wove from shadow to shadow. Their suspect had stopped shooting, and was now breathing like a grampus. Under this, the sounds of Em's movements were well hidden.

But not well hidden enough, it would seem. For just as Em was about to reach from behind him and twist the gun from his hand, the man turned. With one beefy arm, he sent her flying off her feet and into a large, earthenware jug. She lay atop the broken fragments, winded.

"Em? You okay?" Sam called, gripping her service weapon more firmly.

Her friend coughed. "I'm fine," she managed.

"Right." Sam braced herself with her 'It's now or never' shrug and moved in.

Something whizzed past her ear, and shattered when it hit the wall behind her. She sighed again. This was getting real old. There was going to be no hot date tonight, that was for sure. She hoped Rick wouldn't be too angry with her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sam saw Em lift a pot and hurl it at the suspect's head.

_Smash_

He ducked.

Oh, well, Sam thought. So Rick is gorgeous. But he dances like a Quarterback. No sense of humor. Annoyingly clean...

_Smash_

_

* * *

_

"So let me get this straight," Lieutenant Alvarez said, eyeing the two women in front of him. One was openly bedraggled and exhausted, the other stood straight as an arrow and was covered in a fine layer of dust.

"You got a tup that something was going down, and one of McKenna's boys was involved. So without calling it, you two immediately when to investigate this castle...uh..."

"Dalriada Castle, sir."

"Thank you. You arrived just in time to discover the body of the weaver..."

"As yet unidentified."

"Are we talking about a singer, here, Paterson?"

"No, sir. An actual weaver by trade."

"Oh. So you then pursue an epileptic monk to the dungeon of this place..."

"I'm fairly confidant that the man is no monk, sir."

"We were unaware of the fact that he was epileptic, sir. I'm afraid the resulting seizure was entirely my fault. I never would have—"

"Yes, Inspector. I'm sure you wouldn't have. The problem is that Mr. Cole is now charging this department with police brutality, and Dalriada Castle wants eight thousand dollars for the damages inflicted during the shootout."

"Brutality?! The creep killed one person and was doing his damndest to kill us! Besides, there were only three shots fired – not much of a shootout. Three shots, sir, and they weren't even _mine_—"

Alvarez leaned forward, his brown eyes hard as rocks. "Ladies, there are no prints on the knife. There is no blood on Cole—"

"What? But—"

Alvarez held his hand up, ordering silence. "And there is no apparent motive. Unless you're saying this was just a random act of violence, I recommend you find out what a weaver and a fake-monk were doing at a theme park at midnight."

Sam nodded briskly. "Absolutely, sir. I'm all over it."

"Not yet, you're not." He looked them both over. Paterson had been under his command for three years, and was one of the best cops he had. But when she got started on a case, she was like a particularly stubborn dog with a bone. "You go home, get some sleep, and when you come back I want to hear about possible motives. And Inspector Thatcher?"

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"I suggest you go find something Canadian to do. If I were you, I'd steer clear of Dalriada Castle for a while. And both of you – in the future, try to stay out of things that get me out of bed at three in the morning, will you?"

Meg relaxed her stiff pose a little and tried to ignore the nagging headache she felt coming on. "Understood."

* * *

TBC...


	2. A Wolf, A Cop, And A Mountie

* * *

Inspector Margaret Thatcher was having a bad day. Well, it was only nine o'clock, but so far all the signs were pointing in that direction.  
  
The headache that had begun at four a.m. was showing no intention of dissipating, either. Due to this and sheer lack of interest she had cancelled the Consulate's daily staff meeting. There wasn't any point, Meg thought to herself. Despite her best efforts at organization and direction, Turnbull would continue to aggravate everyone he came in contact with, and Fraser would continue to assist That Detective. The very same detective who was, Meg guessed, responsible for his current unexplained tardiness. Why should she waste her valuable time giving them directions that they wouldn't follow anyway?  
  
She sighed and took another couple aspirin. This was definitely the headache talking. Of course she could control her officers. But the pile of paperwork on her desk was one thing she apparently could not. The papers seemed to be reproducing--the pile was at least twice as large as it had been the day before. Meg refocused her efforts and diligently slogged through the mess.  
  
Before long, she heard a familiar "woof" and then a respectful knock on her office door.  
  
"Come in, Fraser," she called. He entered cautiously and stood before her in his usual stiff style.  
  
"Good morning, sir," he said.  
  
"Good morning, Constable. Are you reporting for duty?"  
  
He cracked his neck nervously. "Well, ah, yes Sir. I apologize for my late arrival but I assure you the delay was unavoidable."  
  
Meg sat back, waiting for the inevitable, 'A funny thing happened on my way to work this morning' story. She was not disappointed.  
  
"I was picked up in Detective Kowalski's vehicle to go get some breakfast. He asked if it would be too much of an inconvenience if we were to stop briefly at the veterinarian's office on the way. He was concerned for his turtle, which apparently has not been behaving quite like itself lately. I _did_ suggest that perhaps a turtle's natural instinct to hibernation-like state, and not actual illness was responsible—"

"Fraser."

"Yes, sir. On the way, a man darted out from between the cars parked on the side of the street and was almost struck down by Detective Kowalski's vehicle," Fraser explained, illustrating his point with hand gestures. "In a city the size of Chicago, jaywalking is a common occurrence, but I thought it wise to explain to the man the dangers of that kind of action..."  
  
He continued to talk, watching his superior officer fall into a kind glazed stupor. She tended to skim over his explanations like a reader skims over an article, extracting only the important parts and dismissing the rest.  
  
"...we realized he was actually running _from_ someone, and his pursuer in his, well, pursuit, had also narrowly avoided being hit by a passing taxi. The taxi swerved, ending up on the side walk and knocking down..."  
  
Fraser noticed that the Inspector was not skimming, but dozing. There were dark smudges under her eyes. And, he thought, looking down at her folded hands, her fingernails were slightly dirty. Was that _clay_?  
  
"...pursuer behind me with a knife, and so nearly failed to block--"  
  
"Were you hurt at all, Constable?" her voice broke into the chain of his narrative. As professional as she was trying to be, she couldn't help the bit of concern that rang out in her voice. She blinked, daring him to say something about it. He didn't.  
  
"Er, no sir. I'm fine. Diefenbaker is also unharmed, and was successful in disarming my attacker. However, Detective Kowalski sustained minor injuries when the man swung at him with the parking meter in an effort to escape arrest."  
  
"Was he successful in the attempt?" Meg asked.  
  
"Unfortunately, yes. After pursuing him ten blocks, we lost his trail and returned to find the original man dead, apparently from the large knife protruding from his back. This is why I was late, and, with your permission sir, I would like to return to the precinct as a witness and--"  
  
"--Assist Detective Kowalski," she finished for him. "Very well. Dismissed."  
  
Fraser opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind, and gave her a small smile instead.  
  
"Thank you kindly, sir."  
  
Meg smiled back and returned to her paperwork. She heard Fraser close the door behind him with the utmost care.

* * *

"That was quick there, Frase. D'ya leave her a note, or what?" Ray asked, leaning against his GTO. He watched his partner fiddle around with the brim of his Stetson, perfecting the angle of it on his head.  
  
"No, Ray. I asked permission and she granted it."  
  
"What? The Ice Queen passed up a chance to freeze you out?"  
  
Having apparently achieved the ideal hat angle, Fraser then started on his lanyard. "Her name, as you well know, is Inspector Thatcher, and she has never tried to 'Freeze me out,' as you put it."  
  
But Ray was on a roll. "Y'know, she hasn't yelled at you for one thing since we got back from Canada, has she?"  
  
"Well, actually, there was that incident involving Dief and a bag of her miniature chocolate bars..."  
  
"But that was Dief, wasn't it? Not you."  
  
Fraser looked thoughtful. "That's true. Gave Diefenbaker a dressing down he'll never forget. Serves you right," he directed towards the wolf. Dief yowled and trotted over to Ray.  
  
"Watch your language!" Fraser exclaimed.  
  
Ray Kowalski was grinning evilly as he climbed into the GTO. Fraser felt a small qualm.  
  
"Do y'know what I think, Frase?" he asked, pulling away from the curb. "I think she's got a thing for ya. An' she figures, 'Well, if I stop bitchin' at him, maybe he'll stick around longer.' Or better yet-- 'Next time he goes searchin' for some dead guy's hand, he'll take _me_ with him!'" He started chuckling. "Yep. I got it all figured out."  
  
"That's just silly, Ray," his partner replied. All the same, he turned his face towards the window to hide the blush on his face. For a grown man, he thought disgustedly, he blushed far too easily. "The inspector is my superior officer, and a professional. We both know that nothing can happen..." Fraser broke off as he realized that Ray was parroting him.  
  
"C'mon, Fraser. For once can't you vary that a little? Gets downright tedious."  
  
"Hmm."  
  
As he expected, the conversation ended there. If there was one thing he had learned in his years in Chicago, it was that Americans hated a 'hmm'. His father, or his father's ghost, anyway, had said it was because they had an inferiority complex when it came to Canadians, which was ridiculous. There was no way a grudge over the War of 1812 could be carried genetically.  
  
Once inside the hustle and bustle of the 27th Precinct, Fraser allowed his mind to switch back to the problem at hand while Ray checked the messages on his desk. Most of them ended up in the trashcan.

"Mom...don't know 'em...don't know 'em...don't want to talk to 'em...oh, this guy owes me money..."  
  
"Has anyone managed to apprehend the suspect?" Fraser asked.  
  
Ray threw the rest of his messages back on his desk. "Nah. It's like the guy just disappeared into thin air, or somethin'."  
  
"What about the victim?"  
  
Ray ran a hand through his hair, making it even more experimental. "No ID yet. But it shouldn't be too much longer."  
  
"His choice of clothing _was_ rather distinctive," Fraser agreed.  
  
"Yeah. I mean, I know it's almost Halloween and all that, but how many guys do you know will pass up a Frankenstein or vampire costume to be a monk?"

* * *

TBC...


	3. A Past, A Parking Meter, And A Precinct

Chapter 3

* * *

Back at the Consulate, the solid wood door of Meg's office burst open and crashed against the opposite wall. The Mountie just managed not to wince. Over the shoulder of the agitated Paterson, she could see Turnbull flattened against the wall, looking terrified. There was a visible handprint pressed into the center of his starched tunic.  
  
"Saddle up, Inspector! They just found Cole." Sam brushed a piece of red hair out of her face, almost hopping with impatience.  
  
Meg had known the American for a little over six months, and there was only one case outcome that could make her this perturbed. "Dead?" she guessed.  
  
"Yup. Stabbed to death."  
  
Med grabbed her red wool coat. Its purchase had had nothing to do with the fact that Fra—some people thought that red suited her. "Where'd they find him?"  
  
"In an alley. Off our beat, but I'm going to stick on this one. Find out who got to the little weasle before me."  
  
They exited the office, and Turnbull retreated into a corner as Paterson passed.  
  
"Constable, I leave you..." Meg swallowed. "...in charge. If any Canadians should arrive, you may take care of their problems. If any Americans, government officials, businessmen or tradesmen--including the plumber you called, should show up before I return, please do not try to help them. Ask them to call me on my cell phone. I will return..." she looked to Sam for input, but she only shrugged, "...later. Good luck, Constable."  
  
Turnbull recovered enough to salute, but shied back when Paterson smiled.  
  
Paterson's car was parked by the curb in front of the consulate. Although 'car' and 'parked' may have been over-stating the fact.  
  
"I think Big Red in afraid of me, Em," Sam commented, unlocking the doors. "What's his story? Is he just afraid of women?"  
  
From experience, she knew Sam wasn't interested in Turnbull's history so much as she was looking for something to take her mind off her dead suspect. Meg complied, pulling on the rusty Mustang's door and breathing a sigh of relief when it didn't fall off. "Well, I think he was married once, or is married, or... well, he _has_ had a girlfriend," she decided. "But he may be mildly intimidated by women in power."  
  
"Huh. Speaking of girls, you hear this baby? Me and my brother tinkered around on her this weekend, and now she's purring like a kitten." Sam patted the dash affectionately while squeaking through an intersection on a yellow light.  
  
"The sound actually reminds me of an asthmatic moose I once came across in basic training," offered Meg. Sam shot her a saddened look.  
  
"Now you've hurt her feelings. Haven't you ever heard of positive reinforcement? You tell a kid how great they're doing and they do better in school and behave and all that. I do that with Nicky all the time."  
  
"Yes, but there are two problems with that argument, Sam. One: Nicky _is_ a child, and two: this car is _not_. However, if you think that my apologizing will get us there any safer-" Meg broke off to grab the seat while they rounded a corner - surely that rattling sound was a bad sign? "—then I will be more than happy do so," she gasped.  
  
"Nah. She knows you didn't mean it."  
  
Paterson swung the Mustang around one more corner before bringing it to a halt in front of a seedy-looking smoke shop. Just to the left of the storefront was a particularly grimy alley with a small group of cops clustered around the mouth.  
  
"I'm just going to go talk to them for a sec," Sam said, "But while I'm gone, _please_ don't taste anything, okay?"  
  
Meg raised her eyebrows. "Why would I want to taste something?"  
  
"I don't know! It just seems like whenever I turn around you've got something else in your mouth. You're worse than my daughter. One of these days you're going to catch the plague or something."  
  
"Actually Sam, I think 'the Plague', per say, is not something that can be contracted..."  
  
Her partner shook her head and walked off. Meg smiled to herself and walked into the alley.  
  
It was scattered with cardboard boxes, crates and tin cans, as well as other, less mentionable pieces of refuse. Meg stepped daintily over one such item in her heels before coming to halt in front of a high wood slat fence.  
  
"Hmm." Dark droplets of blood had dried, in two distinct fan-like patterns. One to the left, one to the right, with a spattering of large drops and a smear in the center. At the foot of the fence the pooled blood had congealed, making just another unspeakable mess on the pavement. Her brown eyes moved up the fence, noticing the fresh splintering at the top. Perhaps from someone climbing it? Or as if desperate hands had torn at the slats, in a vain effort to escape? She stepped back as Sam rejoined her.  
  
"Not too pretty, is it?"  
  
"Murder seldom is," Meg replied.  
  
"Yeah." Sam was silent as she surveyed the scene. "You know anything about blood splatters, Em?" Sam asked finally. It appeared to be the only physical evidence they had. The cops on the scene said the area had been combed - no sign of a weapon, no witnesses.  
  
"It's a science," Meg replied, squinting slightly at it. "An expert can determine what type of instrument was used, by what person. If the body is present, usually it's merely a matter of connecting the dots."  
  
Sam nodded thoughtfully, picturing the type of attack that would have left that kind of mark. "Care to hazard a guess? Crime Lab won't send results over until this afternoon."  
  
"Judging by this smaller fan, the murderer was left handed, approximately 189 centimeters tall, with good muscle development. And he stabbed Mr. Cole right up against the fence."  
  
"Harsh," her partner observed, wincing slightly.  
  
"And..." Meg's eye caught sight of a slightly crushed cardboard box along the left wall. She stooped to get a better look. "Ah!"  
  
Sam watched in horror as Meg touched something and then stuck her finger against her tongue.  
  
"Augh!! Don't do that! That is so—there could be diseases!"  
  
Meg blinked. "Clay, epoxy, fiberglass and..." The brunette swished it around in her mouth for a moment. "Beaver fur. Interesting."  
  
"Interesting?!" Sam squeaked, attracting the attention of the other police officers. "It's disgusting, that's what it is!"  
  
"Sam," Meg said, rising and brushing her knees off, "Taste is a very important sense. There is no reason to exclude its use from a criminal investigation because you find it, well...distasteful."  
  
"Huh." Sam replied. "Okay, so distastefulness aside - what conclusions can we draw from the fact that there is beaver fur in a downtown Chicagoan alley, Inspector?"  
  
"The killer is a taxidermist," she said to the flummoxed Paterson in that tone of voice she had. The one that implied that the answer was obvious, and it didn't even need saying. The one that always made the Detective feel slightly foolish for failing to connect the penguins and seeing them for the dots they truly were. Sam shook her head and led the way out of the alley.  
  
"There's something wonky here, that's for sure," she said over her shoulder. "How does a guy go from trying to kill two cops in a theme park, to filing a report against them at the station, to getting stuck in a back alley three hours later?"  
  
"I don't know, Sam."  
  
"Not only that, but the cops here said that—hey, what's up, Em?" Meg had stopped at top of the alley and was staring strangely at the brick corner of the smoke shop.  
  
"Yellow paint."  
  
"Yeah, so what? Like I was saying - the guys here," she jabbed a thumb towards the gaggle of officers, "say there was a guy chasing Cole; he almost got flattened by a cab when he ran across the road. The taxi must of swerved and hit the corner there."  
  
Meg followed Sam out, her footsteps heavy. She stopped again on the curb, staring down into the gutter. A handful of quarters twinkled brightly up at her.  
  
"Hey!" Sam exclaimed. "Must be your lucky day. Someone took out a parking meter, I guess. You are now..." she stopped to count. "One dollar and seventy-five cents richer."  
  
Stabbing. Alley. Taxi. Parking meter.  
  
The headache returned full-force. "Oh dear."

* * *

Meg stood for a minute, completely still. Had she looked closely, Sam may have recognized a massive marshalling of forces going on underneath Meg's smooth face. But what Sam wouldn't have known – wouldn't have known because, miraculously, she'd never met the man – was that this marshalling was something Meg frequently had to do when Fraser was concerned. And Meg was almost positive that he _was_ involved in this. But perhaps Fate had decided to smile on her, and someone other than Kowalski had been assigned to this case. Perhaps. She shook her head and climbed into the Mustang. Behind her, Sam gleefully pounced on the quarters.  
  
To Meg's great consternation, the officers had directed Sam to the 27th Precinct for more information on the murder. It figured.  
  
After another harrowing car trip, the two women climbed out of Sam's car and pushed through a handful of loiterers outside the station house. There were the usual types—questionable characters meeting their bailed-out friends, official looking lawyers, and painfully obvious undercover cops. Painfully obvious, Meg decided, because unlike the shady characters they were trying to portray, they looked perfectly relaxed and comfortable around the police officers that were milling around.  
  
"Paterson!" one 'undercover' yelled. "'Zat you? How's things?"  
  
They looked up to see a swarthy, Italian-looking man approach. "Mansetti! It's been a long time, hasn't it?"  
  
"Sure has. You still working Vice?"

"Nah. Major Case. Been off the street corners for four years, now. But I see you're still pimpin'?"

Mansetti preened a bit in his too-sharp street clothes. "Always. Hey, if you ever want back in, give me a call. You too, pretty lady," he said, eyeing Meg. She gave him a stony glare. He coughed and looked back at Paterson.

"We should let you get back to...whatever," she said.

"Yeah, sure. I'll see you around, Sam. We should grab a beer sometime, talk about the old days."

Sam smiled, a smile of singular sadness. "Yeah, we should."  
  
Meg waited until they were out of earshot before beginning her interrogation. "You worked with him?"  
  
Sam tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "Joe Mansetti? That's right. He was arresting back then – I guess they figured he's better on the street. We were working together when I met Tommy. Actually, Joe introduced us to each other. Look how well that worked out."

"That's Nicole's father?"

"Yeah. He was a cop, too. Working Homicide on the South Side."

"I'm sorry," Meg said, feeling vaguely guilty for dragging the story out in front of a busy public building. "I didn't mean to pry." The other woman shrugged.  
  
"Nah. It's ancient history," she said, pulling open the front door. "I knew what happens when you date a cop, much less marry one. Especially when you're one yourself."  
  
"It doesn't have to be that way. Maybe you just need to find the right cop."  
  
"There is no 'right cop'. I'm thirty-five. It's time for me to realize that and go find myself a really sexy green grocer. And it'd be nice if he'd waltz into my life sometime before I retire." Sam shrugged off her sadness and went to speak to the Desk Sergeant.

Meg wanted to say something to her friend, but even after knowing the other woman for months, it was hard to adjust to the whole "friends confide in each other" aspect. She couldn't bring herself to tell Sam that as far as doomed relationships went, Meg understood _perfectly_. But not only had she not told Sam that, she hadn't even mentioned Fraser to her by name.

Sam, meanwhile, was marveling over how little the precinct had changed. It still smelled like sweat and coffee and vague desperation, and the scuffmarks on the walls were familiar. The cappuccino machine being rolled down the hallway, however...that was new. She looked at it curiously before strolling up to the desk. "Hi!" Sam said to the man sitting behind it, with more energy than she felt. The previous late night was beginning to take it's toll. "I'm looking for the Detective in charge of this case number—" she said, showing him a page from her notebook. "Is he in right now?"  
  
The middle-aged black man nodded wisely. "Oh yeah. That'd be the monk murder. Kowalski's handling that." He pointed her towards the double doors to his left. "Just look for the guy with the hair. Can't miss 'em."  
  
"Thanks." The redhead turned to find Meg. To her surprise, she found her partner standing half-hidden behind a large plastic potted tree.  
  
"Em, everything alright?"  
  
Meg jumped. She couldn't help it. "Um, of course. Why wouldn't it be?"  
  
"You tell me."  
  
"Tell you what, Sam?"  
  
"Why it wouldn't - oh, never mind. C'mon. Desk Sarge says they've got a Detective Kowalski handling the Cole murder - Meg, are you sure you're okay? You look kinda pale."  
  
"I'm fine," Meg assured her, swallowing loudly. "Just - maybe I'm coming down with something."  
  
"Do you want to wait in the car? I can take you home after I see this joker."  
  
"Joker? I thought we were looking for a monk?"  
  
Sam closed her eyes briefly in exasperation. "Meg."  
  
"I'll go with you," Meg said with more decisiveness in her voice. "Besides, you wouldn't taste the box. Maybe I could be of some assistance."  
  
Was that a joke? Sam had known the Mountie for a while, but Meg's sense of humor still caught her by surprise. "I'm sure we can use whatever you've got. Major Case is right through here."  
  
"Yes. It is," Meg replied.  
  
"Been almost five years since I was back here," Sam mussed, side-stepping a handcuffed miscreant. "I wonder if anyone I know is still here?"  
  
"Mansetti is," Meg offered.  
  
"Yeah. Mansetti. Surprised he even remembered me."  
  
They were approaching the bullpen. Meg's palms started to sweat.  
  
Mercifully, the desk ordinarily occupied by Francesca Vecchio was empty. She continued, passing Huey and Dewey in mid-joke.  
  
"And so the duck says--" Huey was saying.  
  
Neither of them recognized her. She had let her hair grow out after returning from her undercover assignment; it shielded her face, and her plodding steps were nothing like her usual business-like stride. Of course, she knew from experience that once the two of them got started on a joke, it would take a large explosion to get their attention. That meant she'd already dodged one bullet - so to speak.  
  
Fifteen feet from Kowalski's desk. His back was facing them, and he was talking on the phone while tapping out a hyperactive beat on his desk with a pencil. Fraser was nowhere in sight.  
  
Ten feet. He seemed to be wrapping up the conversation. Meg took a deep bracing breath and then locked eyes with a large white wolf, which had cornered a man holding a box of milk duds.  
  
Eight feet to go and the Mountie lost her nerve. Not only was she certain that Kowalski would make hell over her being here, he would tell Fraser. And then she would have to admit to her behavior of the last few months. Sure, Fraser would understand - but he understood everything. But as for the rest of her acquaintances...it would never be the same. Sam, for example, would always be watching her for signs...  
  
Meg abruptly changed direction and fled, Diefenbaker hot on her heels.

* * *

TBC...


End file.
